


I Prefer The Dark

by Elizabitca



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, Heavy Angst, Lizzington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4492881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabitca/pseuds/Elizabitca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red helps Liz alter her appearance their first night on the run. Based on the first picture of Megan Boone with blonde hair over the 2015 hiatus. Lizzington. (Mirror fic to almcvay1's "The Dye Job.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almcvay1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almcvay1/gifts).



Disclaimer: They're not mine, I own nothing, and I make no money from this. I'm paid purely in reviews and comments. :)

Author's Note: During a discussion with almcvay1 after seeing the first blonde picture of Liz yesterday, we were both simultaneously bitten by this plot bunny. She has to dye her hair, and she's on the run with Red. What if he participated in the process? Rather than get territorial about a prompt that we'd most likely write up very differently, we quickly agreed to both write it, not tell the other person our more specific story premise, and reconvene in 24 hours to see what we'd each come up with and both post simultaneously. This is mine. When you're done, if you haven't already, go read hers! "The Dye Job" by almcvay1. It's wonderful and adorable, as all of her stories are. :) Also, all credit for my fic title goes to her. I was struggling, and she had the perfect solution. :)

.|.|.|.

Chapter 1

.|.|.|.

They'd managed to get past all road blocks and into the relative safety and obscurity of the rural countryside by disguising themselves as police officers. They'd quickly changed out of the uniforms and ditched the police cruiser just past the city limits, and had continued in a non-descript silver SUV, Liz laying down across the backseat behind tinted glass, and Reddington driving in a baseball cap.

They didn't talk.

It was well after dark, and Liz was having difficulty keeping her eyes open by the time Reddington finally pulled off the road, the sound of gravel under the tires. The car stopped, and the engine shut off.

"We're here," Reddington said, not turning around.

"Where's 'here'?" Liz asked, pushing herself up to a seated position and peering out the dark window, unable to make out any shapes in the blackness beyond.

"Our home for the night. We'll have a new vehicle and a new destination tomorrow." Reddington opened his door and stretched as he exited the driver's side of the car. "Among other things," he added under his breath.

He opened Liz's door for her, and she gingerly stepped out onto the gravel. The first things to go had been their cell phones, or else she would have attempted to use the flashlight feature to illuminate _something_ —

"This way," Reddington said, starting off to the left. Liz followed silently, just able to make out the dark shadow of an old structure in front of her now. Reddington had parked the car behind a large stand of trees, which had obscured the structure before.

There was a decent deadbolt on the door, and all the windows were boarded shut. Once they were inside, Reddington found a lone battery-operated lantern, and checked the rest of the house (of which there was very little), before returning to where Liz had waited for him in the dark front room.

Reddington, having been alert and tense all day, finally came to a stop, several paces in front of Liz. He placed the lantern on a small wooden table, and let himself actually look at her. She stared back at him, her face tired.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

"I feel like I just stepped off one of the moving walkways at the airport. Everything that happened in the last few weeks has seemed...sped up, somehow. And now..." Liz shrugged, gesturing around them. "Now we're just...here. I don't know what to do next. I feel like I still have this...momentum...and there's nowhere for me to use it."

Reddington nodded his understanding. "There are a few things in boxes in the bedroom and bathroom for us." He paused, and tilted his head, his eyes roaming over her face as if he were memorizing the shapes. "We're going to have to change your hair color," he said gently. "Do you want to do that now, or in the morning?"

Liz sighed. Of course she'd need to alter her appearance. "The hair dye is already here?" she asked. Reddington nodded. "I'll sleep a lot better if I've had a shower. Might as well do it now," she said in a flat tone, following Reddington into the back half of the house.

She'd already stripped off the borrowed, over-sized sweatshirt to reveal her basic white tank underneath by the time she stepped into the small bathroom behind Reddington. He had walked straight in toward the small cardboard box balanced on the sink that held scissors, various toiletries, some make-up, and the hair dye. He picked up the package with a picture of a blonde woman on the front and turned to face Liz, who was effectively blocking his exit. "Think you'll have more fun as a blonde?" Reddington said, his next words stolen by the sight of Liz stepping out of her pants with business-like efficiency. Reddington swallowed, and moved to squeeze past Liz to afford her some privacy. She side-stepped in front of him, bringing him up short. He moved to walk around her to the left, but she blocked him again. Reddington kept his eyes trained on the ground as Liz said in a low voice, "I could use some help. It'll be more convincing if I get an even coat." She looked up at him, but he didn't meet her gaze. "Besides, we've only got the one light, right? I'm not going to make you sit out there in the dark."

Reddington nodded, and stepped back, putting as much distance between them as was possible in the tiny bathroom. Liz stepped up to the dingy mirror and opened the hair color package quickly. She followed the directions, combining the contents and shaking them in the bottle provided.

Reddington sat on the edge of the old bathtub, watching her work. When the mixture was ready, Liz grabbed a towel and tossed it at Reddington's feet, kneeling next to him on the threadbare linens. She handed the bottle to him, moved closer until her shoulder was pressed against his hip, and bent her upper body over the edge of the tub. "Start here," she said, raking her fingers through her hair at the back, pushing it up to reveal the hairline at the top of her neck.

Reddington only paused a moment before he did as he was told. He was fairly familiar with the application, having needed to change his own hair color in the past in similar situations.

Once he'd applied the mixture to the hair at the back of her head, she stood, pushing up from the lip of the tub. He assumed she would take the bottle from him, since she was able to reach the front of her hair to do the rest herself. Instead, she climbed into the tub and sat down, her knees drawn up in front of her. She looked up at Reddington expectantly, and explained simply, "My legs were starting to hurt from kneeling on the tile."

Nodding, Reddington motioned for her to scoot closer to him, which she did, and he finished applying the mixture to the rest of her hair. As he worked the dye through the length of her hair, she closed her eyes, and he couldn't help but notice how evenly her breaths came, causing her chest to rise and fall in a perfect, blissful rhythm.

Still perched on the edge of the bathtub, Reddington had twisted so he was almost facing Liz, and he threaded his fingers slowly through her hair on either side of her head, working his way gently toward the base of her neck, until he almost had her head cupped in his hands, her face turned up toward his.

"You're still wearing your watch?" Her eyes still closed, Liz's voice broke the quiet, and Reddington's hands stilled.

"Yes," he answered, his voice low.

Liz pulled back from his grasp, and he lifted his hands reluctantly. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "You don't have to stay in here. There's not much ventilation, and I know the smell is strong." She glanced toward the door. "You can take the light. I don't need it." She looked down at her hands, folded around her drawn-up knees. "Just let me know when I get to rinse."

After a moment, Reddington stood, picked up the lantern, and walked back toward the front of the house, leaving Liz in near total darkness.

In less than a minute, he reappeared in the doorway, two bottles in one hand, the lantern in the other. He placed the lantern on the closed toilet seat, and slowly lowered himself to sit on the floor next to the tub. He held up both bottles, offering them to Liz. One was water, the other was scotch.

She took the scotch.

As she unscrewed the lid and took a mouthful of the alcohol, Reddington asked, "Why didn't you leave with Tom?"

Liz quickly tilted her head back up and pulled the bottle away from her lips, surprised. She looked at Reddington and swallowed. While he waited for a reply, he took the bottle from her. Once he'd had a mouthful himself, he carefully placed the bottle, uncapped, on the floor of the bathtub in front of Liz's feet, the glass making a noise against the porcelain that was louder than seemed correct in the small room.

"Why did you call me and not him?" Reddington asked. "When you needed to run. Why aren't you on his boat right now?"

Liz said nothing, her eyes still trained on Reddington's face in the dim light.

"Where were you last night, Lizzie?" he persisted gently. "You weren't at the motel. You never went home."

Liz's expression faltered slightly, the look in her eyes slipping, her eyebrows knitting closer together as she pressed her lips into a thin line.

"But you'd changed clothes," Reddington noted, reaching for the scotch again. "Whose black shirt were you wearing when you called me for help?" He took a swig and replaced the bottle at her feet again before looking back to her face.

Reddington took a deep breath and propped his arm up on the side of the tub. "You slept with him?" he asked, his tone rhetorical.

Liz said nothing, but the look on her face darkened. She watched the light from the lantern play off the muscle in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

"I would have told you that was an inadvisable move," Reddington continued, looking at the bottle of scotch again but not reaching for it. "But I suppose you get to make your own choices—"

"Rarely," Liz mumbled darkly.

"—I was just under the impression you two were...finished." Reddington said, his focus back on her.

Liz reached for another drink and said tersely, "It didn't count." Frustrated, she took a long pull on the bottle, and then another. She didn't replace it on the floor of the tub in its earlier position, instead keeping it held lightly in one hand. "And I don't understand why this is even a topic of discussion. I had sex with Tom more times than I can count while we were married; I figured one more would just be a drop in the ocean." Reddington remained silent, sensing that she'd continue if left uninterrupted. He didn't have to wait long. "I just needed to feel _good_ and turn my brain off for _one…single…goddamn_ moment. Where else was I going to get what I wanted that night? Who else could I have gone to? It's not like there's been a lot of men in my life since Tom left," Liz finished bitterly, raising the bottle to drink again, taking two swallows and coughing slightly as she lowered the bottle. Reddington took it from her.

"I had nowhere else to go, and it was _easy_. It was _familiar_." Liz looked up at Reddington, her discouraged expression crossed with a hint of helplessness. "I just needed…" She shrugged as if she were conceding to something. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

Reddington held very still, and said nothing. Liz frowned suddenly and tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. She wished she could see his face more clearly, because backlit as he was by the lantern, his expression almost looked like—

Liz inhaled and opened her mouth to speak, but held her breath, suddenly unwilling to voice her guess out loud. After another ten seconds of silence, however, she gave in. "You. You're not disappointed in me because I went back to Tom. You're disappointed because I didn't go to _you_."

Reddington remained motionless, holding Liz's gaze steadily for a long moment before breaking his silence. "No," he answered gravely. "While I can't say I'm not disappointed that—" He broke off, his jaw working ineffectually, and restarted. "I don't think it should have been me."

"You've always said you don't lie to me, Red," Liz said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Reddington shook his head. "That wasn't a lie. I wouldn't have slept with you if you'd come to me that night."

"Wow." Liz gave a harsh laugh that seemed to echo off the dirty tiled walls as she pulled the scotch from Reddington's hand and took another drink. "This is great. From admonishment to rejection in two-point-four seconds flat. Might be a new record for me." She went to take another drink, but Reddington caught the bottle and twisted it sharply from her hands. She glared at him as he placed the alcohol down next to him on the bathroom floor. His hand immediately reappeared, and presented her with the bottle of water.

Liz let out a frustrated breath, and looked for a moment like she was going to protest, but as Reddington watched, her shoulders sagged, and the tension seemed to leave her body as if she'd given up on the idea of fighting anymore. Her face relaxed into an expression of despondency, and she accepted the plastic bottle offered to her. She didn't open it, but held it lightly, balanced on one knee.

"This rejection has nothing to do with how I feel about you, Lizzie."

Liz looked back up sharply.

Red sighed, wondering if keeping _anything_ from her at this point was worth it. He was exhausted, and her knowing wouldn't change his plans or expectations anyway. "It's not about denying _you_. It's more about denying _myself_ something I—" Reddington stopped abruptly, running his tongue absently across his teeth and wincing. He hadn't realized voicing the truth would be physically difficult.

Liz took a deep breath and tilted her head to one side, frowning. "I'm something you...want?" she asked quietly.

"Yes." Reddington's voice was tighter than before.

"And...for the sake of argument…you're denying yourself this because...?"

"Because that's not... something I'm allowed to have," Red explained, choosing his words carefully.

"' _Allowed_ '?" Liz asked. "Who's not allowing you?"

"Me," he said, looking her in the eye. When Liz's confusion deepened the crease between her brows, he sighed and went on, "I've lost count of how many lives…" He paused and restarted. "...of how much blood is on my hands. I've lived a life according to the idea that the end always justifies the means, but those means have often been brutal, and wretched, and…truly terrible." Red looked earnestly at Liz, as if willing her to understand his meaning. She was an arms length away from him, and it almost hurt to look at her as he spoke. "I know I should be punished for the things I've done in my life, and I'm quite sure I'll inevitably meet a... _sticky_ end... as a result of some of my actions. But—while I wait for that—I feel like it's only right that I be denied something in the meantime. I've done too many terrible things, Lizzie. I shouldn't get to have everything I want. Especially the one good, pure—"

"I shot and killed my father and the Attorney General of the United States," Liz interrupted. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say 'good' and 'pure' aren't adjectives you get to apply to me anymore."

Reddington let out a breath and wiped a hand over his face. "This was never supposed to happen to you. This was _exactly_ the outcome I wanted to avoid." He shook his head, and dropped his eyes to the floor in front of himself.

Silence reigned for several long minutes until he felt fingers ghosting over the back of his hand and encircling his wrist, her fingertips pressed in at his pulse point. He looked up at her, but as she tugged his hand toward her, he realized she was looking at his watch. He sighed. "Time to rinse," he agreed.

She stepped from the bathtub, joining him standing in the middle of the room. She spun the handle on the tap in the tub and pulled the lever to switch the water from the faucet to the handheld shower. "Hand me the shampoo from the box?" she asked, kneeling again on the tile just outside the tub.

She leaned over the edge and picked up the shower head, tilting her face to the side and closing her eyes against the splash. As she rinsed her hair, she felt Reddington change position, his shoes coming to rest on either side of her knees, the inside of his legs pressing against the back of her hips. With her eyes closed, she could tell he was standing over her, and just as she was about to ask for the shampoo, she felt his hands smooth over her head again, working his fingers through her hair, somewhat more roughly than she would have anticipated. He lathered her hair thoroughly, and pulled the shower head from her hand when he was done. Liz moved to straighten up, but a strong hand on her upper back firmly pushed her down again. He rinsed the soap from her head, the warm water running over her face ensuring she couldn't open her eyes. Finally, the hand in her hair let up, and the water was turned off. She felt the loss of pressure from his legs as he stepped back from her, and she raised her hands to wipe the water from her eyes. When she turned to blink up at Reddington, he held out a towel, and offered her a hand to help her stand.

He pulled her to her feet, and she found herself once again standing incredibly close to him. She held the towel limply at her side, her wet hair dripping unhindered down her neck and back. Her tank was almost soaked through.

She leaned in slowly, her breath on his skin as she hovered, withholding contact for another moment as if giving him ample time to refuse her and back away. His back was to the door, and she wasn't blocking his exit in any way.

Reddington didn't move.

Liz leaned in and ghosted her lips along the corner of his mouth before withdrawing slightly. When he didn't react, she repeated herself, letting her lips linger slightly the second time before she backed away again.

Reddington lifted both hands and threaded his fingers again through Liz's wet hair, drawing her towards him, but stopped her from closing the distance at the last second. She watched his face contort, blurred by the dim light and proximity.

"While I can safely say there isn't a single thing in the entire world that I want more right now..." Reddington's whisper trailed off. She was so close. "And please don't take this as an indictment of your choices...or character..." He pushed away from Liz. He allowed himself a moment to run one hand through her hair again, but pulled back as he imagined Tom's hand performing the motion years before he ever did.

More often.

Most recently.

"...but regardless of the extent of what you might be willing to—" He couldn't even string a whole sentence together. He was turning her down. He couldn't fathom a universe in which he turned her down. "I'm going to need more than 48 hours between Tom…" He took another step back. "…and me."

Reddington thought this must be what it feels like to stab oneself in the gut.

Liz wasn't sure if he could see her flush in the feeble glow of the lantern as he backed out into the hallway, but she figured if he could, the embarrassment was well-deserved on her part.

Reddington swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. "Take as much time as you need," he said, gesturing to the light. He looked back up at Liz, now backlit, and was grateful he couldn't see the details of her face. "I'll wait in the front room."

"Red—" Liz reached for the lantern.

"Keep it in there with you," Reddington interrupted her quickly. He took another step backward, obscuring him more from view before he turned and disappeared completely.

From somewhere in the blackness beyond the door frame, Liz heard his voice, farther away, but still clear and determined. "I think I much prefer being in the dark right now."

.|.|.|.

TBC… maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I own nothing, and I make no money from this. I'm paid purely in reviews and comments. :)

Author's Note: The continuation of this is entirely almcvay1's fault. I point the blame squarely at her. And OMG I inspired a Sera Clay fic with my first chapter. That kind of blew my mind. :D Thank you to everyone who has read and commented! Reviews make my day! <3

.|.|.|.

Chapter 2

.|.|.|.

Liz sifted through the box of toiletries balanced on the rim of the sink and pulled out a bar of soap. She pulled the shower curtain across the tub, and swung the door almost closed, leaving an inch of space for the practically ineffectual light to leak into the hallway and darkness beyond.

She showered quickly, the water luke warm. She grabbed her previous, still damp towel and wrapped it tightly around herself. With the lantern in one hand, she moved out into the hallway. The jagged, bluish light tossed in front of her illuminated another open doorway. The edge of a bed was visible, with a second, slightly larger cardboard box sitting on it. She crossed directly into the room, swinging the door closed again without bothering to push it until it latched.

Three minutes later, dressed in an over-sized shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, she emerged and walked toward the front room, toweling her hair dry with one hand and carrying the lantern in the other.

Liz began speaking as if there had been no break in their conversation. "Why would you even bring that up?" she asked, her head tilted to the side as she rubbed at her hair with the towel. Reddington was sitting at the small table, an open bottle of water in front of him. He didn't look up as she set the lantern down on the wood surface. "You'd already figured out what happened. You'd already done the math. Based on all of your self-imposed rules, you weren't trying to get me to sleep with you tonight. And just in case I was willing to disregard the limitations you set on yourself, that insult about the length of time between sexual partners was a pretty fantastic insurance policy. Guaranteed to make sure I wouldn't _want_ to sleep with you. Right?" she asked, her voice hard.

Reddington said nothing.

"Is it because there's only one bedroom, and one double bed?" Liz sat down in the only other chair, across the table from Reddington. The rest of the room was empty, with what looked like a pathetic, abandoned attempt at a kitchen along one wall. Reddington took a sip of his water, and screwed the cap back on silently.

"Why did you bring it up in the first place?" Liz repeated firmly.

Realizing she wasn't going to stop with her questions until he gave her an answer, Reddington finally said, "I held your hand on the bench. You laid your head on my shoulder in the car. I needed to remind myself…" He was still refusing to look at her. "It was a convenient scab to pick," he finished.

"Because you didn't trust yourself to sleep beside me tonight without… complications?" Liz asked. "You're a pretty controlled guy, Red." Liz crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair. "Was that all for _my_ benefit? Out of the two of us, am I the unpredictable one you can't guarantee will behave herself? Do you think I've developed a penchant for throwing myself at whatever warm body is near me? Were you trying to piss me off to the point that I—what? Gave you a pillow and told you to sleep in the car?"

Nothing.

Liz made a noise of frustration at Reddington's silence and stood. She walked swiftly out of sight down the hallway and returned immediately with the bottle of scotch from the bathroom. She reached across the table and switched the water for the alcohol, slamming the bottle down with more force than was necessary, and unscrewed the cap. "Drink," she demanded. Reddington looked up at her. She raised her eyebrows and nodded in the direction of the bottle. " _Drink_." Reddington took a sip, and carefully replaced the scotch on the uneven table surface. "Again," Liz instructed, still standing.

Reddington narrowed his eyes and looked up at her. "Why?" he asked, suspicious.

"Because I want you to talk to me, and if that means I have to get you drunk for that to happen, so be it."

Reddington rolled his eyes and pushed the alcohol back an inch toward her. "You're emotional, Lizzie. And yes, unpredictable. To be honest, in general, I'm _not_ sure I trust you right now. I do trust _myself_ , but that doesn't mean I'm going to enjoy the night, lying next to you. It'll be… easier…if you're angry with me. But the real reason I brought it up was… I spent the majority of today driving in silence. Driving you away from a murder charge and a man hunt. Running with you. Because I didn't protect you. Like I said… I failed." Reddington sighed, and Liz lowered herself slowly into her chair. "It's a terrible thing… I have my business, and I've always put all of my energy and concentration into running it. I maneuvered myself into a very particular position in the international community, and I've worked hard to maintain that position. But maybe…if I'd stepped back, and spent more time… if I'd entered your life sooner. If I'd told you… Maybe things would have turned out differently." Reddington sniffed and pursed his lips critically. "Ironically, I was positioning myself that way—amassing contacts and power and influence— _in order to better protect you_. I thought if I could expand my reach to every corner of the planet, then any threat that came your way could be easily contained. Dealt with before you ever saw it coming." Reddington looked down at the scarred wood of the table and shook his head.

"You didn't count on me being… _me_ ," Liz said quietly. Reddington looked up. "I've always been my own biggest threat to myself. And you aren't to blame for my…implosion." She stared across the table at Reddington earnestly. "I feel like a thousand years wouldn't be enough to thank you for everything you've tried to do for me." Reddington opened his mouth to speak, but Liz held up a silencing hand. "Whether you were successful or not, I'm beginning to see that the intent was always there. I appreciate the motivation, even if I disagree with…almost _all_ …of your methods."

Reddington gave a miserable attempt at a smile and bobbed his head, reluctantly accepting her thanks.

"And I understand you feel like you need to be punished. For the things you've done in your life, for not 'saving' me enough. And I also realize you don't have a lot to work with right now in terms of instruments with which to punish yourself. But you're _not allowed to use me._ I am _not_ a tool to be wielded against yourself, Red. I have no idea what the next few days…weeks…months…have in store for us. But right now, tonight, it looks like _we're all each other's got_ , and I refuse to be an instrument of torture for you while you run with me for _my_ protection. We need to work together. We need to have each other's backs. No more pushing my buttons just so I'll lash out at you, and no more pushing me away when I can help." Liz grabbed the scotch and took a generous swallow. "I'm not even going to _try_ to get into how self-destructive I'm realizing you actually are," she said, setting the bottle back down. "It's too late, and I'm too tired."

Liz pushed back from the table and motioned for Red to do the same. "Are you showering tonight?" she asked. Reddington sighed. He looked exhausted, but he nodded. "Okay. Let's go. Let me just...find the bed, and then you can have the light."

.|.|.|.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the show, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: Angst ahead.

.|.|.|.

Chapter 3

.|.|.|.

Liz had followed Reddington the few steps down the hall to the small bedroom. He stood to the side of the door, allowing her to enter the room. She passed the box of clothing and pajamas to him before she walked around to the far side of the bed and drew back the covers. As she climbed in, she said quietly, "I'm fine in the dark now. Go ahead and take the light with you."

Reddington backed out of the room and turned into the bathroom. He set the lantern on the closed toilet seat and turned the shower on, winding the handle as far toward 'Hot' as it would go. When he finally stepped in, he gave a hiss at the temperature. He had no idea why the water heater was functioning if the lights were all out of commission, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Probably a specific blown fuse somewhere. He had no idea where the box was.

He grabbed the shampoo and soap that Liz had left in the shower and washed quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that the smell of the soap, though not either of their usual individual brands, was now _both_ of theirs. He'd go to sleep smelling the same way she did.

He didn't like it.

When he'd rinsed sufficiently and it came time to turn the water off, Reddington found himself loathe to do so. He felt an irrational desire to remain, cocooned in the spray and the steam and almost-dark.

She'd slept with Tom.

It didn't matter, he told himself sternly, it's not like it hadn't happened hundreds of times before. Hell, he'd watched a recording of it at one point, after the surveillance footage from the apartment across the street from hers had been recovered.

He felt a guilty churn in the pit of his stomach when he remembered the night he'd spent watching it over and over, rewinding the beginning multiple times to study the way her fingers dug into his back. He'd stupidly filed away in his mind how much she'd seemed to like it when Tom kissed along her clavicle, but he noted that she always pushed him away when he tried to kiss her just behind the ears. Her face when she… He'd stopped the tape entirely the first time, and had shoved the chair he was sitting in across the room as he went in search of his scotch.

After less than five minutes, he gave up, and returned to the monitor, his jaw clenched, and backed the recording up to when she first reached for him.

He watched it all the way through the second time.

Tom was young and handsome. They looked good together.

Reddington closed his eyes and moved his face directly under the spray as if he could rinse the painful image from his brain with the water.

There was only one bed tonight.

She hadn't even considered him. Even as he sat there with her in this very bathroom, less than an hour earlier, she'd lamented that there was no-one but Tom that she could have turned to. Because there had been no men in her life since her husband left.

If she didn't classify him as a man, he shuddered to think how she'd labeled him in her mind.

He dropped his chin to his chest and leaned forward against the chipped tile wall, bracing himself on outstretched arms. He choked off a groan that he hoped she didn't hear.

He'd turned her down. He'd backed away and—not only that—he'd insulted her.

He needed to get a handle on this. He needed to clamp down on whatever had made him give away as much as he had tonight. If they were going to be on the run together for the foreseeable future, _this was not allowed to happen_. He couldn't afford to have meltdowns to this degree, ragged breaths barely drowned out by the sound of running water while he hid from her in the shower. He needed to be able to protect her, make decisions, contact assets, navigate international situations; he needed to be able to _function_.

He was _not_ functional right now.

The rational part of his brain understood that sometimes emotional release was necessary. Keeping things bottled up was a great way to snap at an inopportune moment in the future, and he _couldn't afford to do that_.

As long as the water ran, he reasoned, he could wallow in it. He gave himself the length of time he remained in the shower to feel the full weight of things, but when he shut the water off, he vowed, he'd be done. Enough.

He swallowed, and let the scorching spray continue.

Her face as he ran his fingers though her hair as she sat in the tub.

The feel of her breath on his face as her lips ghosted along the corner of his mouth.

Reddington balled up a fist and drew his hand back, faltering and wincing as he shook with tension, torn between self-preservation and the desire to follow through with the punch. He finally placed his fist, with no force behind it, against the wall in front of him, pressing firmly. He imagined punching forward with all his strength. He'd break his hand, undoubtedly.

And he needed to be functional.

The ache in his chest was truly infuriating, and his growing agitation didn't show any signs of abating. She'd accused him of using her as a weapon against himself, a masochistic tool to ensure he was never completely—and undeservedly—happy.

Damn the woman. Why couldn't she have gone into some other field than psychology?

He swung his head to the side and pressed his forehead into his upper arm, allowing the savage burn of his miserable longing to wash over him along with the water. She wasn't his to have.

But she shouldn't have been Tom's either. Not recently on his boat; not _ever_.

The way he'd twisted, on the floor of their home, flipping his wife onto her back in one smooth movement that had made her laugh.

Reddington couldn't remember the last time he'd made her laugh like that.

…had he ever?

The heat of the water had begun to fade, and with the gradual lowering of the temperature, Reddington felt some of the tension drain from his chest, and the hollow bitterness in his stomach seemed to lessen.

He hadn't been able to keep the weight of her father's death from landing on her shoulders, and he hadn't been able to prevent her from shooting Connelly, either. But he could keep her out of jail. He could tangibly save her from something this time.

Counting to ten, Reddington took slow, deep breaths, and reached to turn off the water. He toweled himself dry, dressed in the pajamas he'd pulled from the box, and walked with his clothes and the lantern back to the bedroom. Liz was curled up, facing away from him, the dampness of her hair still giving the illusion of a dark color in the dim light. He wondered whether the blonde would be a shock in the light of day tomorrow.

After dropping his clothes on the single wooden chair in the room, Reddington placed the lantern on the table on his side of the bed. As he lifted the covers to join her, he felt simultaneous pangs of terror and elation, though neither emotion showed on his face or in his carriage. He slipped into bed, leaned over, and turned off the light.

.|.|.|.

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I own nothing, and I make no money from this. I'm paid purely in reviews and comments. :)

Author's Note: I went down a rabbit hole on Wikipedia today, looking up other culture's tales of Romeo and Juliet-like doomed lovers, and found the legend of Layla and Majnun. The similarities were just too perfect not to use in this story.

.|.|.|.

Chapter 4

.|.|.|.

Liz lay in bed, curled on her side in the dark. She felt the bed shift as Reddington joined her, carefully staying on his half of the bed. The harsh light from the lantern tossed sharp shadows, alive with motion on the walls of the room, and gave the rustic wood of the boards nailed over the window a sinister feel. Liz didn't move, and didn't speak. Reddington turned out the light, and Liz closed her eyes, silently begging for sleep to come quickly.

It did, but it brought nightmares. Blood, and running, running until she had to walk, her feet dragging, leaden and clumsy, and the streets tilted upwards into the sky in front of her. She climbed them on her hands and knees until they became so steep that she fell back off of them, out into space, landing hard on the deck of a boat. Like a turtle on its back, Liz was unable to sit up or flip over, and she stared upwards, a man's face hovering over hers. She knew him, but couldn't tell who he was. His face kept shifting, confessions falling from his mouth like injuries—

Liz woke with a jolt, her legs tensing and her hands balling into fists around handfuls of the bed linens. She didn't sit up, and she made no noise, save for an audible, shaky inhale and forceful exhale.

"Lizzie." Red's voice was deep, but soft. She didn't turn toward him, and the bed didn't move—he didn't shift or reach for her, either. "Are you okay?"

Liz swallowed thickly, her mouth dry. "Yeah. I dreamt… I felt like I'd stepped off a curb," she lied. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"No."

Liz's eyes had adjusted to the darkness since he'd turned the light out, and the small amount of moonlight that drizzled through the boarded up window in the room had dust particles that danced in it, weightless. "You haven't fallen asleep yet?" she asked hesitantly.

There was a pause before he repeated his answer. "No."

Liz finally shifted slightly, pushing a section of hair back off of her cheek. Most of her hair was still damp, as was the fabric of her pillow case. She must not have been asleep for more than an hour. "You normally have trouble sleeping, don't you." It wasn't a question.

The darkness behind her didn't respond.

"And tonight's situation doesn't make it any easier."

Still no response.

Liz watched the fingers of moonlight scratch the edge of the bed for another minute before she twisted, trying not to tug the blankets as she spun to face Reddington. He had his back to her, laying on his side in the mirror image of her previous position.

"I'm worried that if—" Liz broke off, wondering whether she wanted to admit to yet another weakness. She saw the shadow of Reddington's head turn, just barely, as he listened, waiting for her to go on. She licked her lips. "I'm worried that if I go back to sleep I'm going to pick up right where my last dream left off."

"I had no idea you were so frightened of curbs, Lizzie."

"Will you talk to me?" she asked, ignoring his statement.

"About what?"

"Anything. Just… talk. Pick a topic. Lecture me about proper handgun maintenance, or tell me about the first car you ever owned, or explain the process of making traditional salt water taffy…"

That last suggestion earned Liz a quarter turn of Reddington's head, so his face gazed up at the ceiling as he answered her. "You think I know how to make salt water taffy?"

"I think you know a little bit about absolutely everything, and I think you're a good enough story teller that—given a prompt, any prompt—you can talk for the next ten minutes while I fall back asleep. Would you do that for me?" Liz studied the curve of his forehead and the line of his nose, a murky profile in the darkness. After a moment, Reddington turned his face away from her again.

"One of the most beautiful places I've ever been is India," he began, his voice a low rumble. "I've been there several times, but I was fortunate enough to stumble on the festival of lights one year." Liz rearranged her pillow and the bed creaked with the movement. Reddington remained completely still. "Most people are more familiar with the springtime festival," he continued. "It's more colorful, and somewhat more playful. But _I_ fell in love with the lights.

"It was late October… maybe early November, actually, I can't quite remember. I was traveling with a older woman who worked for… certain important people… and had contacts in India, Syria, and Pakistan. Beautiful woman, spoke a dozen languages fluently, and a _goddess_ in the kitchen…"

Liz closed her eyes, listening to the story. She wished he would turn around to face her, but he'd been so adamantly motionless since he'd gotten into bed that she could tell he was purposefully maintaining his position. She could think of several reasons for this, and each one caused an ache in her chest.

She settled for advancing her hand along the mattress, stopping just shy of touching his back. Her fingertips could feel the warmth coming from his body, and it wasn't likely she'd managed to move her arm that much without him being aware of it, but she didn't care. His steady, deep voice didn't falter.

"…followed her through the streets, and the lights… They decorated the rooftops, and the windows… front stoops… in rings around buildings and all the way up the steps of the temples. The fireworks were… stunning. The spiritual significance differs depending on the region and religion, but what stuck with me was the idea of right versus wrong, transient wealth versus true wealth, ignorance versus knowledge, and the eventual victory of light over darkness."

"Light and dark is a big thing with you, isn't it?" Liz murmured softly.

Reddington was quiet for a long moment. "You're supposed to be asleep by now."

"Keep talking," Liz requested. "This woman… I bet she told you some wonderful stories."

"She did," Reddington agreed, his intonation indicating he was waiting for Liz to continue, anticipating a question.

"Anything that would make a good bedtime story? A fable, or a… fairytale."

"A fairytale?"

"No, I'm not… I'm not asking for a childhood story about princesses… That's not what I…" Liz sighed, her exhausted mind unable to express itself adequately.

After a brief silence, Reddington asked, "Do you know the story of Layla and Majnun?"

"No," Liz said.

Reddington seemed to shift uncomfortably, and Liz moved her hand quickly, in case he rolled toward her and found her hand on his back. He settled back to his previous stillness quickly.

"The story originated in ancient Arabia. It was a poem first, but it's been written and rewritten, and changed, and translated over the years..." He trailed off, and was silent for so long this time that Liz thought he'd decided against recounting the tale for her. She knew he hadn't fallen asleep, because his breathing hadn't slowed, or deepened. His shoulders still seemed tense.

"Red—"

"There was a beautiful young girl, Layla," Reddington began, stopping Liz. "A boy, Qays, fell desperately in love with her, and she with him. When they were old enough, Qays asked to marry her, but her father refused. Denied the woman he loved, Qays wrote poem after poem about her; for her. He never tried to hide his adoration, he never tempered his devotion. People noticed.

"Layla's father continued to bar Qays from seeing her, and the longer they were kept apart… the deeper Qays' obsession became. Layla was miserable, and she could see what their separation was doing to Qays. She _begged_ her father to let them be together, but her family felt that Qays was dangerous, and thought that the intensity of his love was more of a descent into madness. Layla's father promised her to another man… a more suitable match for her. A wealthy noble merchant.

"When Qays heard of the marriage, he fled into the desert, wandering for days to distract himself from the fact that the woman he…" Liz felt the bed shift slightly. "He couldn't bear the idea of Layla in the arms of another man, a man who had been arranged for her… Someone who most likely just thought of her as a business commodity."

Reddington's voice trailed off, and Liz frowned. "You said the story was about Layla and Majnun. Is Majnun the other man she married?"

"'Majnun' means 'madman'…" Reddington replied, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. "The nickname given to Qays as he wandered in the wilderness, pining for Layla."

"Madman?" Liz repeated.

"He roamed the desert, talking to himself, reciting poems of Layla's beauty and his love for her. He poured his longing and despair into his verse. When he strayed too close to the villages, people would write down the poems he spoke aloud, and his words traveled… His poetry was made into song, and passed on scraps of paper. No matter where Layla's husband placed her, no matter how far away they traveled, Majnun's words of devotion and love always found her. Afraid of her husband, Layla kept quiet, her love silent, and secret. She knew Qays still loved her, despite her marriage to another man.

"After years apart, Layla's husband died. Finally able to openly mourn her love for Qays, she slipped into a deep despair and, feeling the full weight of her broken heart, she too died. She was buried in the wilderness, and Qays was later found dead on her grave, his final three verses of poetry, dedicated to her, carved into a nearby rock."

Liz let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That's not a very happy ending."

"You didn't ask for a happy ending."

"No… I didn't." Liz paused, remembering another story. "Red… do you remember investigaing the Cyprus Adoption Agency? Last year?" Reddington said nothing, and Liz continued, knowing that his memory was damn near perfect, and of course he remembered it. "We were tracking down a drug lead, and you took me to a house… you told a story… about a hallucinogenic drug-induced trek through the desert in Arizona." Liz wished he would turn around to face her. "When was that, Red? When did you go on that trip? At the time, you said 'two years ago'. That would put it around the same time as my wedding."

"Wasn't my story supposed to put you to sleep?" Reddington asked her pointedly, obviously trying to halt the conversation.

"It's a pretty safe bet that neither one of us is going to sleep any time soon," Liz said with conviction. "So I'm going to need you to turn around and talk to me."

.|.|.|.

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I own nothing, and I make no money from this. I'm paid purely in reviews and comments. :)

Author’s Note: Angst. Hoping I hit you right in the feels. *rubs hands together like a stereotypical sadistic villain*

.|.|.|.

Chapter 5

.|.|.|.

“It’s a pretty safe bet that neither one of us is going to sleep any time soon,” Liz said to Reddington’s back, with conviction. “So I’m going to need you to turn around and talk to me.” When he didn’t move, she reached out and pinched the fabric of his shirt, giving it a tug. “Turn around,” she demanded softly. Still no reaction. Liz reached out and grabbed Reddington’s shoulder, firmly pulling him in her direction. As she turned his upper body toward her, she felt a strong hand clamp down around her wrist, stilling her. After a moment, he released her, and turned away from her again.

“We obviously have a lot to talk about,” Liz insisted.

“It’s very late, Lizzie, and—“

“Quit talking to the wall. I’m over here.” When he didn’t respond, Liz sat up, looking down at the shadow of Red’s form. "Do you understand how unfair this is?" she asked, her voice gaining strength and volume. "For two years, you've held me at arms length. Every time we'd make progress, every time I would _start to think_ we were getting closer—on any kind of personal level—you would routinely _sabotage_ —“

"I did _not_ sabotage—“

“—you would sabotage things with an insult, or by going behind my back with your own plans, or parading other women around—“

Reddington threw back the covers and stood up, grabbing his pillow as if he meant to leave and sleep somewhere else, despite the fact that they both knew ‘somewhere else’ did not exist within their current confines. " _I_ paraded other women around? You were _married_ ," Reddington spat, his voice suddenly loud. "You were married and in love with the man _I_ had put in your life. And honestly, that worked _well_ for me, because it just served as a reminder that _you weren't mine_ and you'd never _be_ mine." He backed up a pace, and Liz wished she could see his face.                                                                                                                                                     

"And after the annulment? After I _wasn't_ married?" Liz asked, leaning forward on the bed toward him. She refused to let him leave the conversation now that she’d gotten him talking.

Despite the lack of adequate light and facial expression clues, Liz heard Reddington’s incredulity in his voice, and recognized his body language; his form tilting to the side while his head swung from side to side. "You mean while you were going through your domination and bondage phase with your husband shackled to the floor of a boat and lying to me about it? The months you spent, unable to kill him because you still loved him? Would that have been a good time to lay my feelings out for you?" he said harshly. 

“What feelings?” Liz pressed.

Reddington made a frustrated sound and flung his pillow back down on the bed.

“ _What feelings, Red_?” Liz repeated. She watched as he huffed a short, cynical laugh, but he didn’t follow it up with an answer. He seemed uncomfortable, and Liz wondered if he regretted admitting as much as he had in the bathroom earlier. Probably.

"If I'd known, I wouldn't have gone to Tom," Liz said flatly. The words hung heavy in the air between them. 

Reddington swallowed thickly. "You don't know that."

"Don’t insist that you know what I would’ve done, when _you_ were the one withholding things. Do you know how frustrating it is, only having ten percent of the available information at any given time? Working with you is like fighting with one hand tied behind my back, blindfolded, and drugged. Not only is it _impossible_ to win, but I end up looking like an ass in the process, and I'm _hurt_ when it's all over." She gave Reddington a pleading look that a small part of her brain pointed out that he couldn’t see in the dark bedroom.

He didn’t respond, and her frustration evolved rapidly into anger. "You brought up Tom tonight as some kind of sick segue in order to finally tell me how you feel about me. Can you even see how messed up this is?" Liz began angrily ticking points off on her fingers. "You embarrass me by calling me out on sleeping with my ex husband. You tell me you want me. You tell me practically every move you've made over the last twenty years was in an attempt to keep me safe and happy. And then you tell me that my stupid, meaningless, emotionally confused night with Tom is the reason that you can’t accept…” She paused, grasping for a euphemism. As much as she wanted to speak honestly and openly with the man in front of her, she wasn’t quite ready to verbalize the extent of whatever it was she was comfortable with offering. “…that you can’t accept… anything… from me." Liz sighed, her voice growing quieter again. "You waited until I did something to _screw it up_ before you were honest with me. You waited until it was _my fault_ that this couldn't happen for you, and _then_ you brought me in on it. You said forty-eight hours between you and Tom; that's a really arbitrary number. In another day's time, are you suddenly going to switch back over to wanting me again? Is it going to be 'okay' then?"

Liz rose up on her knees, and slid forward to kneel at the edge of the bed in front of Reddington. Feeling her way in the darkness, she touched his upper arm, and ran her fingers down until she found his hand.

“I didn't know something… potentially wonderful… even existed, and you waited until you had a reason to tell me I _couldn't have it_ before you told me it was there.” She tugged on his hand, but he didn’t budge. “I understand that you feel you deserve to be denied.” She tightened her grip and gave a harder tug, pulling him a step closer to the bed. He turned slightly, as if standing sideways offered more protection than facing her words straight on. “But what about me?” she asked. “Are you going to deny _me_ things?”

Reddington pulled away from her and walked to the foot of the bed, putting distance between them. “Yes. When it’s for your own good.”

Liz sighed and sat back, crossing her legs in front of herself. “Red… I’m not saying I’m in the same place that you are, emotionally… when it comes to… ‘us’,” she began. “But it isn’t fair for you _not_ to offer me the chance… the possibility… of something that…” Liz trailed off. “I don’t even know… I don’t think I’m even comfortable describing what I assume a relationship with you would look like,” she admitted darkly. “I have no context for it…”

“It would be a reward far better than I deserve, and a burden you should not be forced to bear,” Reddington said, his voice deep in the shadows of the room.

“Stop with the self-loathing!” Liz cried in exasperation.

“Stop looking at me like a subject in a psychological study—“ he muttered dismissively under his breath, irritated.

“ _I can’t_!” she stressed, leaning forward. “You’ve got your various pathologies listed in blinking, neon lights across your chest tonight! It’s impossible to miss them!”

Reddington’s form seemed to lose a little height as his shoulders sagged. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Do you honestly think arguing is going to solve anything right now?” His voice was hollow. “Is there a resolution to be had tonight? Can we get through _everything_ we need to discuss, and confess, and apologize for? Here in the darkness?” He spread his arms in apparent surrender and defeat. “We could try to talk this out until the sun came up, but I doubt we’d reach an understanding that satisfied both of us. Our situation, outside this miserable little shack, is precarious, and if neither one of us gets any sleep tonight…” Reddington walked slowly back to his side of the bed. “The most we can hope for right now is a scant and probably fitful few hours, but I’m going to go ahead and suggest we try to get what we can. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and you’ll have ample opportunity to continue… whatever this is. But I don’t have the energy, Lizzie, to keep fighting you tonight.” He looked down at where Liz sat, waiting for her to move and allow him space beside her. “May I join you?” he asked tiredly.

Liz knew he was right. Nothing more could be accomplished by the two of them pushing forward with exhausted outrage and unfiltered accusations. But the empty feeling in her stomach made her ache for an olive branch; she wished they had something small to share before they fell into silent, separate sleep, even if it was mostly symbolic.

Slowly, she slid backward, making room for him. She pulled her legs up toward her chest as he slipped under the blankets and adopted his earlier position, curled on his side at the edge of the bed, facing away from her.

Her eyes felt hot and dry, and she suddenly pushed off from the edge of her side of the bed. Reddington said nothing, and if he reacted at all, Liz couldn’t tell. Aiming herself in the direction of the door, she boldly walked blindly into the hallway beyond, trailing a palm along the wall on her way to the kitchen. She swung her hand out to the left and caught the edge of a chair, allowing her to locate the bottle of water she remembered sitting on the table. She took three long swallows, and leaned against the wall beside her. It felt like exposed brick—or cinder block, more likely—and she turned her head to press her forehead to the cool surface.

Almost ten minutes later, she walked slowly back into the bedroom, rounded the bed to her side, and climbed in behind Reddington. Without speaking, she moved forward until her body was pressed along the length of his back, her head on his pillow behind him. She moved her arm gently to drape over his waist, and covered his hand with hers. He tensed momentarily, but she was grateful that he didn’t push her away.

After another minute, his chest aching, he moved his hand, giving hers a small squeeze.

.|.|.|.

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I own nothing, and I make no money from this. I'm paid purely in reviews and comments. :)

Author's Note: I swear, I'm a happy rainbow shiny unicorn descendant in real life. I'm not a morose, angst-driven, emotional mess. I thoroughly believe there is a demon who uses my fingers to type this stuff late at night. So... a quick shout out to the evil spirit possessing me. You're getting some good feedback. Thanks for letting me have the credit for your work, I guess...?

.|.|.|.

Chapter 6

.|.|.|.

Reddington had no sense of how long they stayed that way, still, Liz curled against his back. As soon as she'd wrapped her arm around his waist, her fingers brushing the back of his hand, he'd fought the urge to entwine his fingers with hers. Instead he allowed himself only the brief movement necessary to squeeze her hand, once, before dropping his hand to the sheet in front of him again. She'd laid her palm along his forearm when he stilled once more.

He had to concentrate on her hand. There wasn't a single twitch in her fingers, and no tension in her arm. It was just...resting there. Against him.

He had to concentrate on her hand, because if he didn't, he'd think about the fact that her body was pressed against the length of his. He could feel her inhalations and exhalations, slow and rhythmic, on the back of his neck. They matched the steady, momentary increases in pressure he felt on his back as her chest rose and fell. Her breathing was slow and even, yes, but not as deep as when she'd actually fallen asleep for an hour or so when they'd first gotten into bed.

He didn't even know what time it was right now.

Several inches shorter than Reddington, Liz's thighs weren't long enough to curl into the hollow his legs made, and he was grateful for the freedom. It was another body part he could concentrate on, not associated with her touch.

It was a losing battle. Every time he tried to focus on something else, his mind masochistically snapped him back to the feel of her curves behind him. He could tell exactly where her waist was; there was a small, lonely part of his back that didn't burn from her contact. Her pressure. Her warmth.

...was this the way she slept next to Tom?

Reddington tensed, bearing down against the lance of jealousy that shot through him.

"Red?" Her voice was quiet, and disorientingly close behind him.

"Yes?" he answered, his voice tight.

Liz sighed and pushed back from him. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'll--"

As she withdrew her arm, he caught at it, dragging it back around in front of him. The last pieces of his resolve and restraint were spilling out, disappearing in the blink of an eye like scant rain drops on hot pavement. He pulled her hand up to his face, her gently curled fingers mere inches from his lips. He wondered what sort of noise he'd elicit if he took one of her fingers in his mouth. He wondered what she tasted like.

He'd tugged her far enough toward him that if he hadn't been distracted by the pressure of her body against his back before, he sure as hell was now. She'd had to prop herself up on one elbow in order to allow her other arm to be pulled in front of Reddington, and she shifted her hips against him, trying to balance.

"This isn't making it easy for either one of us to sleep," she said quietly. "I won't--"

Liz broke off as her ring finger was enveloped in warmth. Reddington wrapped his lips around the base, and ran his tongue along the length of it, encased in his mouth.

Apparently the only sound he was going to get in exchange for his efforts was a choked-off exhale, hot in one ear.

He slowly withdrew her finger, and released his grip on her hand. He waited for her to pull back, but she seemed frozen in place, a tableau of a beautiful woman wrapped tightly around a desperate man. After a long moment, craving a reaction--any reaction--from the woman behind him, Reddington turned his head to the side, staring up at the ceiling. "Lizzie..." he began, but was immediately silenced when she pressed the flat of her hand against his chest. She left it there for only the length of a heart beat before moving to lay her fingers lightly across his lips, halting any further attempts at conversation.

Reddington wanted to see her. He wanted to see her face _so badly_ , but the darkness of the room swallowed her shape completely, making it impossible for him to even prove to himself that it was indeed _his Lizzie_ ghosting a fingertip across his bottom lip.

If he couldn't tell it was her, she couldn't tell it was him. 

Who else might she be imagining he was?

He pushed the thought away with a short, frustrated noise that died in his throat as he captured another one of her fingers between his teeth. She held completely still, and Reddington lifted his head off the pillow by a few inches in order to pull the rest of it into his mouth. This time he was rewarded, not only with a low moan, but with movement. 

Liz pushed up from the mattress, throwing back the blankets covering them with several harsh kicks. In one smooth movement, she'd swung her leg over Reddington's hips and pushed him onto his back beneath her. She pulled her hand away from him and leaned down, replacing her finger with her mouth. 

Reddington surged up from the bed, forcing Liz back while simultaneously wrapping strong arms around her to prevent her retreat. Sitting up with her in his lap, he again marveled at the warmth of her and the strength in her body as she arced her back, pressing into him. Her legs wrapped around him, and her hands clutched at either side of his head, holding his face to hers as if he'd even dream of escape. He pulled her over-sized shirt up from where it was pinned between them and ran his hands under it, smoothing flat palms up her back. She nodded frantically against his mouth.

Reddington dropped his lips to her collarbone, kissing along it as she threw her head back and rocked against him; a positive reaction he was pleased to have predicted.

Until he remembered how he knew of her preference for this particular move.

His horrifically precise memory replayed her warm moans and words of encouragement on the surveillance feed when Tom had dropped his mouth to the base of her throat and trailed kisses out onto her shoulder. The satisfied, easy smile on her face, her eyes closed. The number of times he'd watched the recording that night had burned those noises and images into him forever.

This was a terrible idea.

With a grimace and a pained growl, Reddington took hold of Liz at the waist and pushed her off of his lap to land on the mattress next to him. He immediately stood, and backed away from the bed, wiping a tense hand along his jaw.

"What are you--? Red--"

"I'm going to give you up," he interrupted quickly, cutting her off. "Where we're going; it's a place you will be safe, and can start over. You'll be free of all of this mess. Free of me. Once you're safe, I plan to disappear, and never bother you again."

Reddington hadn't wanted to admit his intentions, at least not out loud. Giving voice to them made them much more real, and scary things you imagined in the dark were always less terrifying when you could convince yourself they didn't exist.

Liz paused in a futile effort to collect her thoughts, still breathing heavily. "And if I--"

"This isn't a discussion," Reddington said firmly, his voice low and serious. He took a single step toward the lantern on the table beside the bed and picked it up. He walked to the door, stopped, and turned back to Liz. "I trust you're okay here in the dark," he said, his tone clipped and business-like. "I'm going to head out to the car; I'll come back to wake you when it's time to leave."

"You're going to sleep in the car?" Liz asked flatly. She was surprised at the banality of the question she had asked, since dozens more were fighting to be voiced, each clawing and elbowing at each other in an attempt to get to her mouth ahead of the rest. Angry, confused, humiliated questions.

Reddington's voice drifted through the darkness toward her, laced with defeat. "Une bonne conscience est un doux oreiller sur lequel l'homme de bien peut se reposer."

Liz hated him. It was too damn late--or maybe too damn early by this point--to be speaking other languages in an attempt to evade answering her questions. Her head began to pound. "What does that even mean?"

"It means I haven't slept... truly slept... in years, Lizzie. Why should tonight be the exception?"

Silence crawled between them, and Liz heard, rather than saw, Reddington leave the room. The sound of keys in the kitchen drifted back to her, and the front door of the house opened, and closed.

.|.|.|.

TBC.

Author's Note: Sorry. This felt like Reddington got a little OOC in this chapter, but y'know? I don't think the Demon cared. I noticed, but he just stared at me with his glowing red eyes until I retracted my criticism, and then he pushed the "publish" button. Seriously, it was out of my hands. Also? The French in this chapter is a little wink to my sexy Gutter frogs. Love you ladies. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: They're not mine! I make no money off of this. I'm not associated with NBC, TBL, etc...

Author's Note: Sorry this one is so short, but the next section is already written, it just needs to be polished. You won't have to wait long!

.|.|.|.

Chapter 7

.|.|.|.

A thin second passed after Liz heard the front door close behind Reddington, and she launched herself from the bed. She felt her way quickly along the hall, but when the walls to either side of her disappeared under her fingertips, depositing her, blind, in the open front room, she paused.

Why was she doing this?

Liz had never been the type of person to take sex lightly. She'd had boyfriends, but one night stands had never been her thing. If she was completely honest, she didn't understand why people enjoyed them. If there was no history, if there was no trust, if there was no connection between two people... what made a no-names, meaningless, one-time-only fuck with someone you didn't intend on ever seeing again worthwhile? What made it different from sex with a prostitute? What made it different than masturbation with a _very_ interactive toy?

Her background in psychology had taught her that people were all wired differently. She knew there were people out there who didn't need an emotional connection to get the most out of sex, but she wasn't one of them. There were times in her life she'd wished she _was_ that type of person: long months of hard work and dreary days when the streets were covered in the grey sludge that passed for gutter snow in large cities in the northeast. She'd longed to be the kind of person who could release some tension by going home with a guy she picked up at a bar, and not feel bad about not calling him the next day when school or work inevitably took off like a bandit again.

Why was she throwing herself at Reddington?

He'd pulled her from a burning building when she was a child. He'd saved her life countless more times after that. He was helping her run right now, avoiding a long prison sentence and possibly the death penalty.

Was she using sex as a thank you? As a reward for good behavior? Liz grimaced. She wouldn't be so intent on this unless it was more than that. It had to be more than that.

He'd tried—albeit in a completely inappropriate, overreaching, invasive way—to shield her from the memory of killing her own father. He'd tried his best to look out for her well being. She was sure he'd paid for some, if not all, of her tuition, and may have even greased the wheels when she applied for jobs or internships—

No. She was still thinking of this in terms of what he'd _given_ her. Was she only attracted to him because of the 'gifts'? Did she want to repay him with—?

Liz shook her head, and let out a frustrated growl, standing alone in the dark, warring with herself.

He loved her. That was undeniable. He wanted her—

Still not a good enough reason. Just because he'd worship her... She didn't deserve worship. She didn't deserve adoration.

He'd kissed her so passionately... almost _desperately_ , like his very breath was dependent on the contact between his hands and her skin. He'd held her to him so tightly on the bed that it had felt like being pressed together and wound around each other _just wasn't good enough_ , and he intended to pass through her, the way water still managed to invade into tightly packed sand. Like he wasn't sure life would continue if he let her go.

...was this pity? Did she want to give him this just because he seemed to want it _so much_ that _not_ having it was causing him pain? Was she just trying to apply a balm to an emotionally injured man?

Was she invested in this at all? Personally?

Her mind skipped back to his hesitation regarding the speed with which she'd seemed to switch to him from Tom.

 _Better question_ : she thought. Why had she slept with Tom? She remembered the emotional overload on the boat, the frustration she'd felt, and the desperation for some semblance of normality. Tom had felt so familiar, and over the last few weeks he'd seemed oddly close to the man she'd fallen in love with. Helpful, and sometimes teasing, and she honestly believed that having shed his cover identity, he'd realized that the years they'd spent together had gotten _in_ somehow. Their life together hadn't meant nothing. He wanted the comfortable, fake life they'd had back again, just like she did. She'd said she wanted him.

She had wanted Tom Keen. With his terrible pancakes and Ike the lamp. He wanted the wife who had been willing to adopt a child and go on dinner dates with friends and pretend they both didn't kill people as part of their jobs.

That wife didn't exist anymore. No more than Tom Keen did.

After her marriage officially ended, Liz had cut off her hair and changed the style of clothes she wore. Even as she was doing it, she was aware that she was reacting predictably. People who go through a divorce tend to change their appearance, trying to be a different person than they were with their old partner, and trying to feel desirable again. She'd tried to push off the feelings that it was either Tom or, alternatively, _no-one_ , because she hadn't felt loved or desired in a long time. That was ridiculous, obviously... There would be someone else in her life who would value her and be attracted to her. Eventually. But the rational part of her brain couldn't shut the other part up entirely, and it had whispered to her for months now that she'd chosen the 'no-one' option.

Liz suddenly realized her night on the boat was probably as close to a one night stand as she'd ever get. She didn't really know the man she'd slept with—she'd done it for the physical comfort, but didn't feel guilty for not wanting to call him the next day, or not caring if she ever saw him again.

She hadn't lied earlier that night when she said she wouldn't have gone to Tom if she'd known of Reddington's feelings for her.

 _Screw this_. Liz moved suddenly and purposefully in the direction of the front door. Why was she standing alone inside, trying to justify a desire that shouldn't have to be justified, and quantify reasons that couldn't be analyzed that way? Psychology was one thing. The human heart was another. Liz wrenched open the door and stepped out onto the steps, the stone cold beneath her bare feet. Reddington was ten feet from the car, all the way across the gravel expanse that spread from the footprint of the house.

Not bothering to turn back inside in search of shoes, Liz took off across the gravel.

.|.|.|.

TBC.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own them!

Author's Note: Happy Season Three, everybody! Also, thanks to Psyrixx for coming up with the fix that I JUST. COULDN'T. FIND. You rock my socks off.

.|.|.|.

Chapter 8

.|.|.|.

Liz took off across the gravel toward the silhouette of a man, outlined by the dim interior light of the car in front of him.

Reddington stopped and turned toward her when he heard the sound of her approaching, and he shook his head, placing the lantern down on the ground by the front wheel. "Go back inside, Elizabeth," he ordered, pointing at the house.

Liz slowed several feet away from him and the car. "No."

"I'm not coming back inside," Reddington said, shaking his head for emphasis. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have—"

"I'm not out here for an apology," Liz interrupted, looking at him evenly.

Reddington narrowed his eyes, understanding why she'd followed him. "Go back... inside, Lizzie," he said slowly, his voice deep.

"No," she said, advancing on him. Reddington's jaw clenched, and he shifted his weight but didn't back away as Liz came to a stop in front of him.

"You're going to freeze out here," he said, stubbornly refusing to address the situation. "You're barefoot."

Liz wrapped her arms around his neck, and gently placed one foot on the top of Reddington's left shoe. He'd obviously had the forethought to shove his feet into them on his way out of the house. Liz eased her weight forward, and moved her other foot onto his right shoe. This effectively pressed her even closer to him, and she appreciated the heat coming off of his body as she carefully balanced on the ends of his shoes. Reddington was right: it wasn't a particularly warm night.

Reddington closed his eyes, his brow creased. Liz pulled his face toward hers, but he rolled his head to the side and grabbed at her wrists to pull her hands from his neck. Reddington's movement unbalanced Liz's footing, causing her to step backwards. He moved around her, putting her between himself and the car. "I can't... I can't think straight," he said, walking a few paces away from the car, his back to her. He immediately turned and paced back, shaking his head, his eyes wide and imploring. "I need to make the right decisions here, because this path we've chosen is dangerous and mercurial, and I can't afford distractions if we're..."

"Screw 'distractions'," Liz spat, raising her chin defiantly as she opened the back door of the SUV. She stepped to the side, and without breaking eye contact, she shoved the door, swinging it wide open, as if in invitation. "You refuse to come back inside. I think we're fairly resourceful people. We can work with what we've got out here."

Liz watched resolve settle on Reddington's face in the harsh lantern light. He strode quickly over to her, catching her around the waist and driving her harshly back against the side of the car. Liz took up handfuls of his shirt, intent on keeping him within arms reach. He buried his face in her neck, and she tilted her head back to grant him better access. She was expecting a kiss, his tongue on her skin... But instead he just seemed to breathe her in for a moment; the tip of his nose trailed from her clavicle up to her jaw, his rough, open-mouthed breaths hot on her neck.

Reddington's palms flattened on the body of the car next to Liz, and he ran his hands up the side of the vehicle until he was resting his weight on his elbows, one on either side of her. His forearms framed Liz's head, caging her in place, the tips of fingers curved gently over onto the top of the car. He leaned against her, his body holding hers still with a welcome and consistent pressure.

"It's like you're a loaded gun in my mouth... and I like the taste of metal..." Reddington ground out, as if the very words he spoke were trying to strangle him.

Liz tilted her head back down and tried to catch his eye. "Red, I'm not—"

"Have you ever played Russian roulette, Lizzie?" he interrupted, dropping his eyes to her mouth.

"No," she said, her breath speeding up as his hands left the car and crept up, cold, beneath the hem of her shirt. "Have you?" she asked.

Reddington held her gaze and nodded. He curled his fingers under the waistband of her shorts.

"With a bullet... in a gun?" she clarified, suddenly finding it hard to continue her questions. She drew in a shaky breath.

Again, he nodded, his hands immobile at her waist.

"So you're familiar...with this moment..." Liz managed. She let go of Reddington's shirt and reached down to grip his wrists. She applied a gentle pressure downwards, encouraging him to slide the fabric off over her hips, but he tensed, not allowing his hands to be moved. Liz frowned, her eyebrows knitting together in frustration. "Why won't you just pull the trigger?" she whispered.

"In my previous experiences with this game...there was only _one_ terrifying outcome," he explained, his voice tight. Liz moved slowly sideways, pulling Red with her toward the open backseat. "Either _I_ would die, or my opponent would."

Liz eased back to perch on the high, leather seat behind her. The light from the car's interior cast a warmer glow on his face than the stark, bluish-white illumination from the lantern that still sat on the gravel a few feet from them. "No one's going to die tonight based on our actions here, Red," she said softly.

"No," Reddington agreed, bracing an arm on the upper curve of the open door. "But it's been daunting, thinking about the potential mess I'd have on my hands if I ever pulled this particular trigger and the bullet fired." Reddington clenched his jaw, and rolled his head to the side, looking down on Liz with a contained sort of apprehension. "But that's nothing compared to my fear of the five-to-one odds: I don't know what I'd do if I finally amassed enough courage to squeeze the trigger, only to hear nothing more than the terrifying, hollow click of an empty chamber... And then what would I have to do? Pass the gun on to someone else?" He shook his head, wincing. He swallowed and shifted his weight, his voice quieting. "Easier not to play the game."

"You can't win if you refuse to play in the first place," Liz pointed out.

Reddington's expression changed, hardening from his previous look of resignation to one of irritation. "I don't think you understand, Lizzie. There _is no_ 'winning' for me. Every time I considered this—" He gestured between them. "—and I _have_ considered it— _painfully_ often... Every time, the idea that you might back away with a look of revulsion..." Reddington stared distractedly out into the darkness to his left as if it could supply more suitable words with which to explain himself. "I've _seen_ that expression on your face. I know what it looks like when you can't stand the sight of me. I've been able to bear it before because I know I've always deserved the look. For hiding things. For manipulating you. For...Sam. But if you looked at me with revulsion in response to nothing more sinister than an offer of love and adoration..." Reddington trailed off. "I don't think I could— I think I'd— How could _any man_ —"

Liz remained quiet and still, concentrating on taking careful, measured breaths, while Reddington wished fervently that she'd interrupt him, because he couldn't seem to stop giving her everything. She waited for him to go on.

Reddington started again, trying to explain himself. "Tonight you seem... willing. For whatever reason—"

"Red—"

"But even if I spent the night with you now, that's not a victory for me. I have you... for _one night_? Maybe a week, if... things go well, and you're... generous." His expression was pained, and he stared off over the car door into the night again. "Would I be able to give you up tomorrow? That's..." Reddington shook his head. "That would be _immeasurably_ harder."

"Who says you have to give me up?" Liz asked, confusion ghosting lightly across her face.

Reddington gave her a surprisingly callous glare. "That was never the plan. Never the goal. Never even an option," he growled. "I don't end up with a happy ending; I don't get the girl. I'm not the hero in your story, Lizzie, as much as I want to be. I'm one of the monsters; the _bad guy_. I'm the villain who attempts redemption in the second half of the story, and sacrifices whatever he can to try to undo what he did in the opening act. Your husband needed to be removed from your life, and you needed protection from those who wanted to harm you for information... or as leverage. While you had a normal life—a job and a house and friends—keeping you safe was more.. _.involved_. Now I have the ability to move you somewhere; spirit you away in the night and ensure no one ever finds you or threatens you again. Let you start over somewhere _safe_." Reddington set his jaw with resolve. "This is where I walk away. This was always where I was going to let you go."

Liz let out a slow breath, her face contemplative. After a moment, she nodded as if she'd come to a conclusion. She lifted her hips and in one swift motion the cotton shorts she'd been wearing were off, and she dropped them unceremoniously behind her in the car. She looked up at Reddington, a challenge in her eyes.

Reddington's face fell. "Lizzie," he begged, shaking his head. He stepped back, and Liz, expecting his retreat, followed him, pushing herself quickly out of the car.

"Stop being an idiot," she reprimanded, standing before him in nothing but her oversized shirt. "Stop being a _martyr_." A muscle jumped in Reddington's jaw at her sharp tone. "And stop making excuses," Liz continued. "You _want_ this. And you know what? I don't need a hero. I'm realizing monsters and madmen might just be more my speed." She raised an eyebrow. "Care to help me test my theory?" she asked, her voice low.

Reddington rolled his tongue, and dropped his eyes to look at Liz's bare legs, silhouetted in the light from the car's interior. "I never wanted to drag you into the darkness with me," he murmured.

Liz stepped up to him, laid her palms softly on either side of his jaw, and leaned in to whisper against his lips, "Maybe I like the dark."

Reddington moved forward swiftly, pushing Liz back against the car once more. He stooped briefly, hooking his hands around the back of her thighs and hitching her up against the vehicle. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and her arms wound around his neck, bracing her weight on his shoulders. After a quick moment battling his simultaneous needs to divest himself of some clothing and also not drop the woman in his arms, Reddington kissed her with hasty abandon and Liz let out a gasp as he pushed into her. She immediately found that she had little patience for being pinned against the car, however, as she was unable to move, and after his initial thrust and desperate groan into her mouth—which felt like life itself being breathed into her—she struggled slightly against him. His lips left hers, concerned, and she quickly lowered her legs, pushing him away from her. The only thing that kept him from panicking was the fact that her hands never left him, and as she moved sideways again she dragged him with her. She sat on the edge of the backseat, just inside the door, and pulled him quickly toward her once more. Reddington's hands gripped at her hips, and she caught at the handle over the door above her head.

Reddington wondered at the sounds he was able to elicit from her, since he knew from the surveillance recordings that while she wasn't typically silent, she wasn't usually this vocal, either. But as he hitched one of her knees up higher against him and she clawed softly at the nape of his neck, he reveled in her cries and moans that seemed to spread out into the night around them, carrying in the chilled, thin air.

Arching her back and closing her eyes, Liz stretched herself out across the backseat of the SUV. As her hips rolled against his, her hand shot out to the side to brace herself against one of the front seats, as if she'd somehow lose her balance, laying on her back in the car.

"No," growled Reddington, leaning into the car to grab her waist and pull her up toward him again. "Open your eyes," he demanded.

Liz, panting, did as he asked, leaning a hand behind her to push herself forward. As she slid closer to him and the angle changed, she sighed and her eyes slipped closed again, involuntarily.

Reddington reached up and grabbed Liz's face with one hand, his fingers and thumb on either side of her chin. His grip wasn't hard enough to cause pain, but the pressure definitely got her attention. "Look at me," he said, and some of the force had left his voice, replaced by a plea.

He had to make sure she couldn't imagine he was anyone else.

Liz nodded despite her confusion; she was intent on providing whatever circumstances he needed tonight. She laced her fingers around the back of his head, not breaking eye contact.

The feel of her palms running over his scalp made him lean forward toward her, like a dog begging for more contact. She responded by pressing her forehead to his and scratching her nails lightly through his short hair.

Reddington cringed, and his rhythm faltered. Tom's hair was the same length as his right now.

"Hey—" Liz urged, pulling his face away from hers and tilting it up so he could look her in the eye. "What's wrong? Where do you keep going?" she panted in frustration. "Because I swear, if you pull away from me again right now without finishing this, I'll kill you—"

Reddington shook his head, his eyes tightly closed, resuming his motion. "Please, just..." he shook his head again.

"What do you want? Reddington?" Liz leaned in to graze his ear with her teeth. "Just tell me what you need?" Liz whispered.

Reddington's face twisted, and he hissed through his teeth before answering. "You—" he said, his voice strained. "I need you."

Neither one spoke for the next several minutes, moving against each other in the semi-darkness. Reddington noted the fact that Liz had become silent, but hadn't stopped participating or responding to him. Every time he looked at her he found her eyes trained on his face, her mouth open, her breathing fast, and her cheeks flushed. When he eventually pushed her down, into her earlier position spread out across the backseat, and dropped his hand between them, her eyes finally closed again, and she cried out, arching up on the leather and pushing one hand above her head against the opposite door.

Her blonde hair spread out around her head like a halo, and Reddington's fingers dug possessively into her hip, pulling her harder against him. Her hair may be lighter, but this new Lizzie was darker somehow, and entirely his.

.|.|.|.

Reddington's arms ached from bracing himself above her in the car. There was a seat belt buckle pressing rudely into one of his knees, and he was sure she had to be just as uncomfortable as he was, despite her contented expression and the suggestion of a smile on her lips.

"It's... almost dawn..." Reddington murmured, craning his head to look at his watch.

Liz nodded, her eyes closed. She moved a relaxed hand to his chest, and he dropped his gaze to where her palm rested on him, still somewhat bewildered by the easy intimacy of the gesture, despite all that they had just done.

"Do we have an hour? If you're driving again today, you should sleep. If only just for a few minutes..."

They climbed slowly from the car, pulling on discarded pieces of clothing in the murky blue light of pre-dawn. Liz led the way back to the house, with Reddington close behind her. When they found the bed again, he waited for her to climb under the blankets before sliding in behind her, curling against her back, and wrapping an arm tightly around her waist.

.|.|.|.  
TBC.

Additional Author's Note: I have a confession. Red's line about having a loaded gun in his mouth but liking the taste of metal was stolen from a Robert Downey Jr. interview. He described the threat of a relapse into drug abuse that way, and it was such a gorgeous, sad idea... So I stole it. It seemed like something Red would say. Disclaimed and credit given! Not mine!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own them!

Author's Note: Don't throw things. It's not my fault. The characters do what they want to; I just write it down. Blame them.

.|.|.|.|.

Chapter 9

.|.|.|.|.

When Liz woke up, three hours later, it was to the feeling of a gentle hand pushing strands of hair away from her face. She stayed still, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the soft brush of a thumb across her brow and down her cheek. The room was warm, and through her closed eyelids she could tell the sun was streaming in through the boarded-up windows.

"Mmm... what time is it?" she murmured, stretching while she buried her face in the pillow.

"It's time to go," Reddington's voice answered, soft, but with authority.

Liz opened her eyes and raised up onto her elbows, greeted by the sight of Reddington, standing over her at the bedside, fully dressed, and not smiling. "You're already up," she said redundantly. An unbearable feeling of cheapness swept over her, and she kicked at the sense of rejection as it wrapped a cold hand around her ankle.

"I'll give you some time to get dressed, but we should go. Take what you need from the box; leave the rest." Reddington started toward the door. He was already wearing his shoes, and the ball cap from the day before was already on his head.

Liz choked down the next several savage things that came to her mind, trying not to overreact, and instead asked flatly, "What did you do—wait til I dozed off, and then immediately get back up? Did you even sleep at all?"

"A little," Reddington said, unemotionally, pulling the door closed behind him and refusing to meet her eyes.

Liz pushed herself angrily off the bed and dressed quickly. She closed the door to the bathroom a little too loudly, but couldn't bring herself to care as she shoved a toothbrush in her mouth.

Her reflection in the rusted mirror caught her eye and she paused. The blonde hair wasn't bad... But she didn't look like herself. She looked through the rest of the toiletries and dragged a brush through her hair before pulling it up into a messy ponytail.

She didn't pause to look at Reddington as she strode through the front room, past where he sat at the table. She didn't slow as she reached the door, and continued toward the car without a backward glance.

.|.|.|.|.

Liz was already in the front seat, stubbornly facing forward when Reddington emerged from the small house a few minutes later. He locked the door, and tossed the key into an area of unkempt tall grass and weeds on his way to the car. Rather than heading toward the driver's side, he opened Liz's door and leaned across her to unbuckle her belt. He stepped back immediately, and when she looked up at him in confusion, he reached for the door to the backseat, opening it, too.

Liz swung her legs out of the car, but didn't stand up. After a moment of staring at each other, Reddington said matter-of-factly, "Backseat." Liz raised her eyebrows, unsure how to respond. Reddington continued, "You're in the back one more day. Then, if we can be sure no-one's following us, we can discuss you riding shotgun." Reddington left Liz to make the switch herself, and walked quickly to the other side of the car.

"It's going to be a _really miserable_ road trip if you refuse to talk to me about this," Liz called over the SUV as she slammed the passenger door closed and climbed into the back.

"Misery loves company. Good thing we've got each other, isn't it?" Reddington said stoically, starting the car.

.|.|.|.|.

Liz lay curled on her side across the backseat. They'd ridden in silence for the better part of an hour, and she'd managed to run through multiple fictitious fights, unemotional discussions, and a fair number of scenarios involving grand, romantic apologies in her mind while Reddington drove.

If only reality was as easy to script as a daydream.

.|.|.|.|.

Reddington stared out at the bland, flat, seemingly endless horizon. The highway they were traveling on was long and straight, and he could see a fair distance ahead of them as well as behind them. There were no other cars in sight, and Reddington knew it was a good opportunity for Liz to sit up, stretch, and change position without any possibility of being seen.

But if she sat up, he'd see her face in the rear view mirror. As it was, he could glance up and see nothing in the backseat.

_The way she had wrapped herself around him, digging her heels into his thighs to urge him closer..._

_The way she'd desperately pawed at the rest of his clothes to remove them..._

_The feel of her inner thigh against his lips as he listened to the sound of her begging from inside the car..._

Reddington swallowed and clenched his jaw. He gently loosened his grip on the steering wheel, and flipped a map over on the passenger seat for no reason other than needing to perform some benign action.

It was true, he adored being proven right, and saying 'I told you so' came with a unique kind of thrill that never got old, but the regret that scraped at his chest as he drove stole any happiness from him this time.

He'd been horrifyingly, precisely correct. Allowing himself one night with Elizabeth Keen and having to give her up the next day was a blinding kind of torture, and even as he breathed steadily, his shoulders low and relaxed, and an unemotional expression on his face, his chest pounded with a raw, suffocating persistence.

Reddington, briefly wallowing in over-exaggerated fantasy, hoped the devil was paying attention to every second of this day, because if this scenario wasn't currently being used in hell, it was a damn shame, and those burning down there were getting off easy.

.|.|.|.

That night they stayed in a small, two-bedroom house at the end of a long street. The entrance was shielded by trees, and there were boxes of toiletries and various clothes left for them again. The lights worked, and after a long day, cramped and ignored in the back of the SUV, Liz made a beeline for the bathroom, almost as much for privacy as for the comfort of a shower.

By the time she emerged, the lamp in the main room had been turned off, and one of the two bedroom doors was closed, no light peeking out from underneath. Liz knew it was rude, and he'd likely hear the attempt, but she decided to push and confirm her suspicion. She gripped the closed door handle, only to find she was unable to turn it. Locked. As expected.

More angry than sullen, she retreated to her room and closed the door.

She was sleeping soundly at midnight when Reddington emerged into the hallway, having come up with the excuse of hearing a noise outside. He checked the locks on the front and back doors, pulled the curtains in the front room to the side to glance out onto the quiet, empty street, and shook his head. He paused to stare at the cheap carpeting beneath his feet for a moment before heading back toward his bed.

Full of intention to lock himself back in his room again, Reddington instead found himself standing at Liz's door. He was a man who was used to always having the answer, always having an eloquent story with which to teach or distract or charm. He was accustomed to a constantly running train of thought—something that generally contributed heavily to his pathological lack of sleep—but as he stood outside the second bedroom, he found his mind completely blank. There was no plan, there was no argument. Just an all-encompassing _need_.

Reddington's hand gently gripped the door handle, and turned it, quietly easing the door open an inch.

She hadn't locked her door.

He stood, his hand frozen on the cold metal knob, his head bowed forward, his brow furrowed.

After a long moment, Reddington moved his hand around the edge of the door to the handle on the inside. There was a soft click as the button in the center of the handle was pushed. He pulled the door closed, checked to see it was locked, and returned to his room.

.|.|.|.

TBC.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own them!

Author's Note: WARNING. Angst ahead. All of the angst. Vats of it. It's ridiculous. Remember when Red reminded her back in chapter 4 that she didn't ask for a happy ending… IJS. Michelle My Belle, MinP, almcvay1, and all of the other ladies in the Gutter, THANK YOU for the group effort, talking me through finishing this up! You're like my own personal TBL writer's room, just with more ovaries and attention to continuity and character development. ;)

.|.|.|.|.

Chapter 10

.|.|.|.|.

Liz was silently sequestered in the backseat of the SUV again the next morning, ensconced behind the tinted windows before the garage door was ever opened. No one on that street would ever know she'd been there.

By mid-morning, she asked to move to the front seat. Her request was denied.

"I apologize for your incarceration back there, but I'm sure you'll be happy to know you've only got another few hours of this: we should reach our destination sometime late this afternoon."

Liz sighed, and shifted, wishing the middle seat belt didn't stick into her side so consistently. She also wished she didn't have to lay down, forced to curl up inhumanely on the very surface Reddington had stretched her out across the night before last. She moved her thumb slightly, remembering the texture of the seat on her bare skin.

"Red… we need to talk."

"About what," came the flat response from the front seat.

Liz sighed. "Okay, if you're going to play dumb, fine. We can put a pin in it until we get where we're going. But then you're  _going to have to talk to me about it_ ," she insisted. "You can either rip the bandaid off now, or wait until this drive is over. One way or another, though…" Liz trailed off, confident she'd made her point. Unable to see his face, she had no way of knowing if Reddington had even heard her, and after an infuriating moment of silence, Liz prompted, "Red…?"

"A full and comprehensive State of the Union discussion will have to wait until later today, Lizzie," Reddington said evenly.

"Why?" Liz asked, an irritated edge to her voice. The fact that he had completely ignored her for over twenty-four hours was incredibly frustrating, and her patience was wearing extremely thin. If he hadn't been saving her from imprisonment and death, she figured she would have lashed out at him a long time ago.

"Give me the rest of the drive," Reddington finally answered. "As soon as we arrive… we'll talk."

.|.|.|.

Shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon, after driving through open country under an endless blue sky for at least a hundred miles, a young man met them at a nondescript gate. It wasn't an imposing structure; Liz guessed it was mostly for keeping livestock on the correct side of the property line and off the road.

"Hey, Red." The sandy-haired man greeted Reddington warmly and shook his hand through the open window before pointing at the dirt lane that stretched away beyond the gate in the darkening twilight. "Pull through and continue on up the road. There's only one, no turns, and I'll follow you in my truck up to the house. I'll show you the set-up once we get there."

"Michael, I don't care  _what_  your wife says, you're quite the gentleman," Reddington replied, smiling easily. "How _is_  Amanda?"

"She'll meet you at the front door with a smile and a hug; ask her yourself!" Michael called back over his shoulder as he loped toward the gate.

Minutes later, the pair of them were greeted on the steps of a huge, beautiful, sprawling home, and Amanda—a short woman in muddy jeans and bare feet—walked them out to a small guest house a hundred feet behind the main building. "You've got some clothes in the bedroom, I made you some dinner and stuck it in the fridge, and anything you can't find, or don't have—really, if you need anything at all, Raymond—you just come up to the main house and ask, okay?" Amanda gave them both an untroubled smile and excused herself, letting just the screen door bang shut behind her. Liz immediately strode toward the exit and shut the carved wood door as well, and threw the deadbolt.

Reddington noted the action, but said nothing, taking his time placing the car keys on the small kitchen table.

"Talk," Liz demanded. Reddington said nothing, but held her gaze. "I've put up with your silence as you squired me across the country long enough. At this point it's bordering on insulting." Liz felt anger pushing up in her throat. " _Talk_ , dammit," she hissed.

Reddington ran his tongue along the ridge of his teeth and nodded. "You'll enjoy dinner tonight; Amanda is a wonderful chef—"

"That's not one of the topics I want to discuss," Liz warned.

With a sigh, Reddington sat slowly in one of the hand-made chairs at the table. "Michael and Amanda will host you tonight, and tomorrow a helicopter will come for you. From there you'll board a plane in—"

"Just me?" Liz interrupted.

"Yes."

"Why did you lock my door last night?" Liz fired back without segue.

"You hadn't done it yourself," Reddington said, unfazed by the change in topic.

"No, because I figured it wouldn't be a deterrent if people were after me. If someone managed to get through the front door with the intention of harming me, they wouldn't be stopped by a flimsy hardware store lock on a bedroom door knob. They'd just knock the damn door down. Now  _you_ , on the other hand…" Liz crossed her arms over her chest. "The only person that lock kept out of my room last night was you. So I ask again: why did you lock my door?"

The hard look in his eye told Liz that Reddington didn't plan on answering her question. Ever.

"Still stuck on self-denial and punishment, aren't you?" Liz said, shaking her head. "You're  _so_  hard on yourself… You realize that the way you're perceived is all a matter of perspective, right? You might top the FBIs Most Wanted List, but  _you're saving me_. You've been saving me for  _years_. From where I'm standing, you're more of a  _hero_  than a—"

Reddington looked up at Liz sharply. " _No_ ," he barked, interrupting her. "I am  _not_  your hero, Lizzie. I'm your  _monster_. For your safety and well-being, I've put myself on a leash the last few years, but don't mistake self-containment for domestication."

Liz narrowed her eyes at him. "This isn't me asking you to change; I don't want you to 'tame' yourself for me. I want you to be  _you_. Because I think I might _like that_ ," she admitted, her voice dropping with a desperate emphasis. "You want me to be this pure, untouchable, angelic  _thing_ , something that you can use as proof that you don't spoil everything you touch, but Red—" Liz stepped closer, one hand on her chest. "What if you chose someone that was naturally more ' _morally ambiguous'_ than ' _angelic'_? You told me before we left DC that you never wanted me to be like you, but what if that's what I was always going to be? Whether you were involved or not? Maybe you were never meant to save me… maybe you were meant to teach me how to live in your world?"

"The world I live in isn't a nice place," Reddington warned darkly.

" _It's not all bad if you're in it_ ," she volleyed back with conviction.

"You should not be forced to—"

"You're not forcing me! I'm choosing!" Liz cried in frustration.

"You should not be forced to have me," Reddington finished. "You deserve someone who can give you a normal life."

"I can't have a normal life now!" Liz shouted, thoroughly unconcerned with what their hosts might overhear. "This is where I am. This is  _what_  I am. What 'normal' man do you think would want to join me in this? Who would sign up for a life on the run, or in hiding? Just to be with me? I wouldn't wish this on  _anyone_! And if a man  _did_  choose to join me in this new life I have waiting for me, he'd lose his opportunity for normalcy. No man would give that up in order to be with _me_. I'm not that great."

Liz lapsed into silence, a sudden feeling of futility washing over her.

"Lizzie," Red began softly as he stood and walked toward her.

"No," Liz shook her head, closing her eyes. "I know. I understand: you think I'm wonderful. I don't know how you came to this conclusion, but you've got me up on a pedestal as if I'm an angel of light who always does the right thing. I don't. Try—just for a  _second—_ to look at my track record objectively. Can you do that?"

Liz opened her eyes and found Reddington standing directly in front of her. She drew in a breath, but stood her ground as he reached up and gently smoothed his fingers through her blonde, messy waves. She wondered at how he could look at her with such an expression after everything she'd done.

"You didn't listen to a single word that just came out of your mouth, did you?" he asked quietly, cupping her face in his hands.

"What?" Liz's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"You said you wouldn't wish this life on anyone. What man would want to give up a normal life to be with you? You: someone who's not perfect, someone who is… actually quite flawed. You'd never ask that of anyone." Reddington raised his eyebrows and gave Liz a sad smile. "I wouldn't wish this life on you. I don't want you to throw away your life to run with me. 'I'm not that great'," he repeated, echoing her earlier words.

Liz reached up and laid a hand around one of his wrists. "Normal is no longer in the cards for me, Red. And if you're stuck with an abnormal life, just like me… Might we be the best chance either of us have at… companionship? At…?" Liz trailed off, unable to take the final step of adding 'love' to the end of her question.

"You don't know what you're choosing," Reddington said, dropping his hands from her and stepping back, returning to his previous seat at the table.

Liz felt anger surge in her gut as quickly as it had died down moments before. "Guess what, Reddington," she said, her voice hard. "I'm a human being who has agency over her own choices and actions. If I want to choose something, you don't get to refuse me that option. Quit looking at me through rose colored glasses and realize that I'm not that idealized girl you fell in love with years ago. If she ever existed at all…?" Liz huffed an angry sigh. "She's not here anymore."

"I know you, Lizzie. You're a good person."

"No, I'm  _not_ ," she said with finality. "I generally do what needs to be done, and I only do the 'right thing' when it's right for  _me_ , or aligns with what I think should happen and even then… just so long as it doesn't detract from what I want. I do what's easiest, or—" Liz threw her hands in the air, "—whatever the hell enters my brain at the time. Does that sound familiar?" Liz didn't give Reddington time to answer, instead pushing on, "It sounds like  _you_ , just with less self-control."

Reddington didn't argue, his eyes directed down the hallway that presumably led to the bedrooms. He fought the urge to retreat to one of them and lock the door.

Liz continued, advancing across the open area and pulling a chair out to sit next to Reddington at the table. She splayed her palms out, fingers spread on the surface in front of her. She looked down at the backs of her hands, as if they could help her find the right words. "I think you do love me," she began carefully, "...and as damaged as I am… who else is going to love me like this? If not you?" Liz looked up at Reddington with an expectant look on her face. "You want me to be safe and loved, and these days I honestly believe my best shot at both of those is with _you_. And if someone as flawed as I am can be loved the way I think you love me, then there's  _got_  to be hope for you. I know you wonder if I could ever love you…" Liz leaned in slightly, her forearms braced on the table. " _Give me time._  Let's find out. Because I think… if you can love me, I  _must_  be able to love you. Flaws and all. And I'm willing to try. You just have to let me."

Liz held her breath, waiting for a response. She'd laid as many of her cards on the table as she could, she thought, muffling the nagging idea that Reddington might not have to wait long for her feelings to grow into love. Liz longed for more time to examine what she felt already.

She watched his jaw clench, and wished she could hear the thoughts she knew were battling around inside his head. The fight had to be a bloody one. While most people could argue two sides of an issue with themselves, Liz had always imagined Reddington's internal dialogue to be more of medieval battle, with gravitas, and tradition, and metal, and blood, fought between not just two opposing sides, but multiple warring factions. She wondered which internal army would win tonight.

When Reddington spoke, his voice was serious. "Lizzie, I want to apologize for… allowing things to progress the way they did the other night. It was unfair of me to take advant—"

"God _dammit_ , Reddington!" Liz cried, pounding a fist down on the table between them. "Stop trying to take back what happened! The way you talk? It makes me sound like a passenger in my own life—like I wasn't an active participant—when in actual fact, _I_  should probably apologize to  _you_  for pushing it that far after you initially told me no... _repeatedly_." Liz squeezed her eyes shut momentarily, and took a breath. "Neither one of us handled that night particularly well, but we were both consenting adults, and it  _happened_."

"Just like what 'happened' between you and Tom on the boat," Reddington said evenly, his face not betraying the ache the mental picture caused in his chest.

 _How can a conversation between two intelligent people who care about each other go this badly?_  Liz thought wildly, looking at Reddington with incredulity. "Really?" she asked sharply. "You can't fool me, you know. After all of this—everything that's happened over the last few days—hell, over the last  _two years_  of you trying to win me over, to save me from myself—the night we spent… You  _wanted_  this. The way you looked at me, the way you touched me… It was like parts of you threatened to come  _unglued_  if we stopped. And that hasn't changed: you  _still_  want this. And now after all the careful, calculated seductions and pulling, you're going to use Tom—"

"Did I ever ask for it?" Reddington interrupted harshly. "For anything, at any point in the time we've worked together? Did I ever make a request? " He paused while Liz searched her memory in vain, frustrated that once again, he was correct. " _Yes_ , I wanted it," Reddington admitted with a growl. " _I've wanted this to the point of_ —" he broke off, trying to compose his voice. After a moment, he swallowed and went on. "It wasn't the fact that you slept with him—the physical act—that hurt." Liz opened her mouth to argue, and Reddington held up a silencing hand. "But you can't tell me there wasn't an emotional need there. You can't tell me—"

" _Forget Tom_!" Liz cried desperately.

"—Lizzie, you are not the type of person to go back to your ex husband without bringing your hopes and dreams back with you. You can't tell me that you didn't want that emotional connection, that familiar safety and comfort from him. You spent the night with him on that boat, and you were  _invested_." Reddington worked to crush the desire to wince, holding his features as still as possible. "Yes, I wanted a physical connection with you, but more than that—much more—I wanted that  _investment_  from you. Having one night with you and giving you up not only makes me  _ache_  for what I no longer get to have, now that I've tasted it, but frankly… it cheapens what I got. I wish we hadn't… I regret…" Reddington, unable to suppress the way his face twisted, turned his gaze away from Liz, despite the fact that he knew it did no good. Just because he wasn't looking at her anymore didn't mean she couldn't see  _him_. But at least he didn't have to watch her pity him. "Because if you were with Tom, and the familiarity and the memory of the love you had for him—"

"I didn't—"

"— _and the love you had for him_ ," Reddington stressed as he continued, not allowing her to interrupt, "...I don't believe there's any way for a person to transfer that emotional investment to someone else in a day's time. I don't care that you slept with him. I care that you went to him for emotional comfort." Reddington clenched his jaw, furious with himself that he still didn't have the courage to look at her. "I care that you went to him for love."

"Please don't insult me by presuming to know my motivations, or how I view my own actions on that boat," Liz said, her voice thin but furious, and just above a whisper. "In the last thirty-six hours of  _complete and utter silence_  from you I've had more than enough time for self-reflection. If you have a question, ask it. But don't make assumptions."

"I'm not angry with you, but you don't look at me... the way I look at you," Reddington said, pushing back from the table.

"You've had a lot longer to work on that 'look' than I have," Liz pointed out. "I only gained admission to this party a day and a half ago. Don't you dare blame me for not catching up to you on that topic while confined to the backseat of a car driven by an emotionally unavailable masochist."

Reddington nodded and stood. "I can't argue with that assessment." He looked toward the front door, and Liz felt her stomach drop.

"Red… don't do this," Liz warned. "Don't leave me here with nothing. My life is upside down right now, and you're leaving.  _Please_  don't desert me. At least spend the night, and for God's sake, be honest with me about how you feel, and what you want. Don't make your own penance a punishment for me, too. Don't take away the last person in my life that I care about…" Her voice, much to her chagrin, had raised a few notes, the constriction in her throat giving away her desperation and growing panic. Reddington took several steps away from the table, and Liz stood to follow him.

" _No,_ " Reddington said with vehemence. "You stay." He pointed at the seat Liz had vacated, stabbing one finger emphatically at it to reinforce his request as he unlocked the deadbolt Liz had thrown upon their arrival. " _Sit_."

Panic gave way to indignation, and Liz set her jaw. "Don't talk to me like I'm a dog, Reddington," she growled, her voice hardening again.

She took another step forward, refusing to abide by the desperate hand Reddington raised to still her. His usually carefully constructed expression was gone, and he looked for all the world like Liz was an executioner, advancing on him with a noose. When he spoke, his tone was steady, but barely above a low whisper. "Then don't try to follow me home," he begged sadly.

Liz continued toward him until his back was against the carved wood of the door, and she reached up, cupping both sides of his face in her hands such that when he bit down as he closed his eyes, she felt the change in his jawline. Rather than leaning in to his lips, she left him to continue his short, soft breaths, and buried her face in his neck. She dropped her hands to his arms, winding them around her and holding them there until, finally, he moved to pull her tightly to him. His hands fisted in the fabric of the back of her shirt, and he let out a long, agonized breath as Liz lifted her hands again to rest at the back of his neck.

"Over the years," Reddington managed, his voice low in Liz's ear, "I've become accustomed to people trying to spill my blood. That's just the nature of the life I've lived." He tried to memorize the softness of her hair against his cheek as he spoke. "And after all the attempts, all the attacks… at this point… I've developed a heightened sense…" Reddington lifted Liz's hands from him, and with a firm grip around her wrists, slowly pushed her backwards. "...of self-preservation."

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Liz promised.

"Not physically," Reddington corrected. "And not intentionally. But just the same…"

" _Stay with me_ ," Liz implored.

Reddington swallowed, knowing the one thing he needed to hear, the one thing that could stop him from walking out the door, would never be said. And even if she did, he knew he'd never believe her.

He asked anyway. "Why should I?"

"Because I'm asking you to," Liz breathed, her face pleading.

Reddington winced, his eyes downcast to the floor. He dropped his hands from her wrists and grabbed the door handle. He stepped backwards out onto the front stoop, and as he pulled the door closed behind him, he said goodbye with an agonizingly final, quiet single word.

"No."

.|.|.|.

Author's Note: I took a bit of a risk, and ended a Lizzington story without a Happily Ever After. Just wanted to see how it would play. Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Prefer the Morning Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498482) by [Sera_Clay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay)




End file.
